The room smelled of cigars, sweat, and tension.
Charles de Gaulle stood beside the long oak table, arms crossed, chin slightly raised, listening to his general staff speak in measured tones about failure.
The kind of failure that came not from incompetence; but from something they couldn't yet define.
Something that was happening just beyond the French border, in the high passes of the Pyrenees, and deeper still in the scorched dust of Aragón.
"...losses in material are now exceeding projections by nearly 40%, mon general," said Colonel Beraud, his voice tight. "We've had another supply column hit near Puigcerdà. No survivors. Same signatures as the last two attacks; small caliber, coordinated ambush, then thermite on the remains."
De Gaulle said nothing.
Another general cleared his throat. "We've recovered German shell casings. Old ones. Marked with stamps from two decades ago. It's deliberate misdirection."
